The Fat Trial

(credits)

The trial was going toward its end. After years of administrative battle and weeks of in court, the defendant attorney was about to deliver his closing argument.

In the courtroom, one of the largest in the Northwest Democratic Republic, families, journalists an curious were massed in a dense, sour smelling crowd, shoving and stretching to get a glimpse of the action. Peace keeping squads had to be deployed outside in order to avoid clashes between supporters and detractors of the accused. Both groups, facing each other, seemed to be holding a slogan chanting contest.
"Free speech, free Billy Kay" was met with "Hate haters", while "Open your eyes, open your mouth" loudly clashed again "Feelings first".

Billy Kay, a short, rather skinny, young looking black man, was sitting almost motionless on his bench, enjoying the change of athmosphere from his stay in protective custody.

He had been placed under home arrest for a while, but after a small group of 'outraged citizens' had showered his house in molotov cocktails, he found himself moved to a more secure location. When the press asked him about his feelings concerning the loss of his roof, he sent another wave of resentment throughout the country. "Next time, why don't they bring a nice, tall wooden cross for a little burn-along? I'll provide the popcorn".

Big Mouth Billy, as the media had monickered him, had first stepped into trouble when selected for a live, prime-time trivia game show. Student in cognitive sciences with an impeccable record, knowledgeable of a wide range of topic and, as student go, perpetually penniless, he'd though of if as an occasion for quick monetary relief.

When, under the attentive eyes of millions of viewers, the presenter had asked him a ritual question, "What motivated you to enter this show, Billy?", not seeing any benefit dihonesty he simply answered "Well, I could say a lot of things, but I'm just hoping for a big fat heap of cash".
While his mouth was still split into a grin, the show's audience fell silent.
"You mean a huge amount of cash, right Billy?" the presenter looked on the verge of panic.
"Not at all, I do mean a massive, fa…"

Only then, he noticed the look in the eyes of the three other contestant. Two morbidly obese ladies and one morbidly obese man. Apparently, his choice of words hadn't been to the taste of everyone. One of the girls almost immediately broke into hysterical sobs, the crowd started booing, the show was interrupted.

Of course, the recording had made it around the Internet before Billy got home. The lawsuit came a week later. The contestants, backed by the TV network, accused him of infringing the hate speech and banned terms laws. To his knowledge, the word 'fat' wasn't appearing in the banned terms blacklist. Apparently, it had only taken a couple of days to send it there, among the colony of c-words, n-words and other letter-dash-words.
But then why not?
The video of his misstep had gone viral, the public opinion was shaken, hordes of overweight people went marching… the government had to do something.

At first, Billy had taken the news rather stoically. He didn't care about much, he wouldn't care much for that either.
When the molotovs when through his windows, he found himself caring at once and completely.

Usually described as a lively lad, prone to humor (although sometime defining himself as a bit of an ass), his only response was then to sit, immobile, mulling things over and not uttering a word.

As he was now, waiting for the defense attorney to start babbling about temporary insanity, stage fright and maybe a stay at the Federal Recalibration Institute instead of the expected 15 years of jail time. His lawyer, reluctant from the start, was doing no more than the necessary minimum. His refusal to talk hadn't helped his case either.

It wouldn't matter, he'd end up with an RFID implant like other 'hater' in any case. The prosecutor would burn him to crisp without effort; just pointing at the street, showing a couple of recordings from the 'big march' would impress the jury way beyond what was needed.

The hell with it all.

"Excuse me"

Billy had talked. Interrupting the defense's speech in the middle of a sentence having something to do with his skin color.
Hundreds of mouths went shut.

"Yeah, I wish to dismiss my attorney. Yes, you. I don't want you to talk on my behalf, I'm screwed coming and going and you're not helping. So shut up.
Now I'm gonna tell you how I see it. Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you in the corner with that huge camera, all of you.
First. Yeah. I said it, it's on video. I wasn't drunk, I wasn't crazy, I wasn't stressed or anything. I just said what was in my mind."
The judge's gavel had to rasp several times before anybody could calm down.
"Now hear me. I'm not polite, I swear a lot, I'm a bit of an ass, I'm far from perfect. I'm black, too.
Ah, and I don't give a fuck."
The following commotion was even louder than the first one.
"Would you all stop screaming every time you hear a word you don't like? What are you? 8 year old girls?
Yes your honor. I know your honor, I'm going to far. But hey, I'll get an implant soon. I'm just asking for five minutes.
You all want to see me convicted because, to your standards, I said the wrong thing a the wrong moment. I said something that made some people sad. Fat people."
The courtroom was on its way to another antic when he stood up and shouted "SHUT UP! Hear me! You've been marching, you've been screaming and I haven't said a word yet. My turn!" Somehow, his voice was commanding enough to turn the room silent again.
"See, that's your problem. You don't want so see what's here. You're so afraid of certain things that you don't even want to accept their existence. I'm black, I'm short, I've got a voice so low it could lay down on a railroad and be alright if a train passed… Call me shortie! For the love of all that's good, call me blacky! I don't give a damn! And you know why? Because I have absolutely no reason to be ashamed of what I am. Even if I wanted to. You think I don't want to be taller? You think I could? Of course I can't!
So I just get on with it. When I see what you call the 'big march', I can't help myself thinking… are all these people so sad to be themselves? Change what you can and live with what you can't change. Full stop!
I never hurt anybody, I don't get into people's ways, I study hard, I support our Unique Party and our Wise Leader, like all of you here. Now, you've been calling me a crazy person, an egoistic hater, a sociopath. You've been marching to put me in jail just because I said something that happened to somehow relate to someone who didn't like the sound of it.
Do you have any idea of what these words mean to me, of how I feel about what you guys said? Your words ruined my life, robbed my of my future. And I just sit down and shut up. How twisted is that?"

Some in the audience tried to start booing, but the heart wasn't there anymore. The truth was: Billy had had the guts to say aloud what was thought by many. His speech was the second recording of him going viral in less than an hour.

A week later, on his way to the Federal Recalibration Institute, in a police wagon, he listened to the muffled sound of the radio. The Minister of Morals was on air. "… yes, Big Mouth Billy has been proven guilty as charged, the decision is supported by overwhelming proofs and technically valid. We can not reasonably afford to overlook the law for the needs of an individual. But even then, we can not deny the strength of his message which, even if lacking in subtlety, has indeed underlined a serious problem in our way of apprehending our verbal communication. This is why, starting from today and in honor of the courage it took to stand up and speak, the words 'egoist', 'sociopath' and 'short' are now banned from any sort of speech whatsoever. Thank you, Billy Kay"

The wagon's driver jumped on his seat, startled. He'd seen all sorts of behaviors from his passengers, but a convict laughing his head off like that, that was a first.

Fin.


The Fat Trial by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

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Request: Hostel - Another Vampire Story

(credits)

Every single day, she would try something new.
First, it'd been holy water. Flinging a cup of liquid at your host face was just preposterous. Then, she'd slipped half a dozen garlic cloves in their evening soup. Her drawing holy symbols on her bedroom's door had infuriated him. Permanent marker. On century old oak wook. There was no way to get rid of it.

"Look, Julie, for the very last time. None of this is working, and none of this will ever work. I am a vampire, yes. I am immortal, yes. Think of me as a soulless spawn of some demented evil if want, I don't care! But for the love of whatever you believe in, stop making my life a living hell and just stay put! These things you hear about holy water, sunlight and such are the stuff of myths. I, on the other hand, am real. You are my only guest, so please behave as a guest should!"
She was firmly standing on the other side of the room, her bed between them, arms crossed agains her chest, her eyebrows locked into a resentful frown. "I still think a stake to the heart would kill you".

His face turned from pale to paler. He flung his arms upward in a gesture of earnest desperation and slapped his cheeks with both his hands.
"A stake to the heart would kill anyone!"
- "I don't know that. I've never tried before. Maybe you should be my first" She went around the bed, reducing the distance between them to a mere couple of inches and poked his chest with her finger.
"I don't see any reason to grant you anything. You advertize your place as a guest house but you put me in a room with a leaking roof where the layer of dust on the bed is thicker than the blanket, then you tell me there is no phone coverage, then you tell me that I have to stay because you 'chose' me to be your 'helper'?"
- "Look, vampires have to drink blood, alright? Not much be we do.  Soup is not enough. I just need you here for a couple of month, let me take an ounce of your blood every two days, and I won't bother anyone for the next century. We don't kill anymore, you know." He gave her what looked to be an apologetic smile. Showing a set of pearly white teeth. Perfectly healthy. Perfectly normal.
- "And why should I? And what can you do? You can't even bite me!"
- "See it as a favor"
- "No. That's final. You're going too far. Now stop that or I'll…"

She hadn't finished her sentence when the blow landed, sligthly pushing her liver in. She folded in half then dropped to her knees, nauseated, unable to catch her breath. The count's composure had changed. He wasn't a frail middle aged man. His hardened gaze was penetrating, boding for unpleasant moments to come.
"I have had enough of you, lady. Akin to the others, you believe that your innocent looks and likable features are a fate shaping tool, but I see further than a mere envelope. You are denying the meager pittance I am so gently asking. You will be punished". Even his speech had changed.

Julie couln't help but stare. Pain was giving way to surprise.
She had come to almost like the old man.

A month earlier, looking for some quiet holidays, she'd found the manor on an Internet listing.
Past the first day of her stay, she hadn't felt completely comfortable in the Count's presence.
The huge house, though, was too remote to leave immediately. A shuttle bus would only come once a week; she had to wait several more days.

The Count was clumsy and comically ill tempered. She'd seen him as a quirky, armless loner in need for someone to talk to. His rambling about being a vampire had come to amuse her and, to kill time, she'd entered his game, hoping to entertain them both.
Her tricks and their disputes were supposed to be fake. Role plays.

And there she was, on all four, gasping for air.

The Count briskly took hold of her wrist and started pulling her out of the bedroom. Down the corridor leading to the dining room, they took an impromptu left down a spiralling stairwell to enter an underground tunnel, forking every now and then.
She wasn't figthing back. He found her stoicism rather practical. Resisting was no use anyway, the feeding room's heavy lock would bar any attempted escape. He was feeling thirsty.

After they reached the place, he unlocked the heavy, metal coated door and sent her sprawling on the floor. "I am coming back very soon. Then, we will enjoy a very special kind of drink, you and I." He locked the door shut. The room was brightly lit by a common lightbulb. She had expected a chandelier and a fireplace. What she hadn't expected, though, was the operating table and the surgical paraphernalia in a stainless still tray by its side. And the handsaw.

A pin board was hung on the wall in front of her, displaying locks of hair carefully tied in a ribbon-like manner, each one labeled from one to seventeen. A label marked eighteen was pinned alone in the lower right corner. She heard a key turn in the lock. Before she did anything, the Count was holding a damp, acrid smelling cloth to her mouth. She went limp. When she opened her eyes again she was on the table,  wrapped in heavy transparent plastic sheets from the neck down.

The count was leaning over her, looking satisfied and slightly extatic. "See, dear little thing, it would have been wiser to let me have some of your blood. I would have let you go back to your daily life, mind your irrelevant problems and work your irrelevant job… but no. Just like the others, you had to refuse. They all refuse. Nonetheless, I would like the express my gratitude, you will keep me well fed for quite a while."

His right hand, holding a razor sharp scalpel, steadily advanced toward her throat.
"Now now, stay still, it wont hurt much if you…"
He stopped mid-sentence.

Julie's left arm had darted from under the sheet, effortlessly piercing through them, grabbed his wrist and brought it to her mouth. The shock was so brutal it sent the scalpel bounce against a wall.
The Count could clearly feel her two canines puncturing his skin.

Still holding her bite, she sat on the edge of the table, completely unhindered by her bounds, before the nonplussed expression of her captor. Letting go of his wrist, she wiped her sleeve to her mouth, smearing a dark red drop of blood across her cheek.

"Oh my, I haven't drank in ages. Feels good, doesn't it? Just my luck, too. I've always liked eccentrics thinking themselves as vampires. Usually I just stick around for a couple of days and get out of their way. Most of the time they just like wearing ruffles and drink wine while pretending to be evil. Having said that, you're my first real psychopath.
So, you try to lure them into thinking you're just an crazy old man, and add them to your collection a la 'Dexter' as soon as they get tired of your nonsense… that's pretty sick."

The Count's eyes widened as he backed up in a corner.

"I must commend your knowledge, though. Garlic, sunlight… ", she scoffed, "Holy symbols! None of this works. It's no more than pop culture. But that scalpel, that was bad news, well played.
Still, there is one fact you got completely wrong. Do you know which one?"

He silently shook his head from side to side, still staring.

"We still kill, sometimes"
She rolled her eyes and added, to herself, "Mostly for fun".

She leapt.

The End.

This story is based upon a request from Julie (Keywords: Vampire, Funny... I just couldn't keep the funny part on this one, got pretty carried away. Julie is a badass though, and I'll hope she'll forgive me :p )

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Hostel - Another Vampire Story by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Request: Count on me

So, we meet again after a medium sized hourglass?
- "Sounds about right, then you'll explain me the job requirements  and we'll start ASAP".

Ignatius shook his future employer's hand and headed toward the parking lot. Once inside his car, he started the engine, clutched on gear A and drove down through the lower middle, upper-bases and base-base floor to finally exit in the city center. At the red light, he reached for his back pack on the passenger seat, pulling out his hourglass and upturning it against the back rest. He would meet his soon to be boss again, before the sand had filled the bottom half, which would leave him free until the next morning.

He hated the thing, an older model with a heavy aluminium base and thick plexiglass casing.The standard A-A caliber sand, most common in the nothern hemisphere, did nothing to diminish the weight. Luckier southerners would live on standard C-A African grain, much more compact and better flowing, allowing for smaller containers. Only, that very hourglass had been in the family since his great-grandfather, who had been alive during the Disappearance, when people could still use numbers.

Stories about numbers had always fascinated him. How they were used to define precise quantities, coordinate event, or even as memories and means to understand concepts defied his imagination. But just as magic, numbers were from another realm.

When his great-grandfather had still been a boy, people had slowly started to forget how to employ them. Complex operations were the first to go. Specialists in the field suddenly became inept. Several industries had threatened to collapse, although the use of number processors called computers, later relegated to museums, had avoided a massive catastrophe. Despite everyone's best efforts, numbers continued to vanish from humankind's collective intellect, untill even counting (whatever that was -apparently something very basic) had turned into a mistery.

Speculations were made about the phenomenon, successively blaming a new kind of virus, radiations, long term effect of specific food enhancers… without ever finding out a cure.

Realizing the hopelessness of the situation, scholars from all around the planet saw the importance of preventing existing technologies from fading out of existance. The Counsil For Knowledge was founded for that purpose, and issued scores of references and manuals to guide, step by step, the production of the most vital transportation, communication and medical tools.
Following the passing of the last Counting Elder, the Council refocused its aim toward organizing an increasingly chaotic society, renaming itself the Counsil of Measurements.
The post Disappearance era had begun.

Time standardization had been the first problem to be tackled.
If people could still refer to the day-night alternance, they would not be able to keep track of more than a single cycle. Hourglasses were introduced, comming in tiny, small, medium, large and huge sizes, keeping people synchronized as long as the sand would flow.

Distances were measured via hourglasses as well: A walk to the city was a small hourglass away on foot, and a tiny one by car. Quantities would range from single to 'many lots', speed from 'almost stopped' to 'as fast as can', and many more approximation were found to feel the gaps left by the total absence of anything mathematical.

The result was a slowed-down world, where things would only happen after many failed attempt and endless adjustments.

Ignatius arrived home.
He went for the kitchen, unwrapped a standard size pack of frozen french fries, then another, poured a large size pack of oil into his pan and proceeded to cook.

Food packaging was said to be one practical side of life without numbers. Everything would fit into boxes, standardized, off course, from very tiny to very large, and one would rarely resort to cutting and 'measuring' as shown in the archive from the old times.

Waiting for the fries to be ready, he sat near the stove and started handling a Rubik's cube.
His hobby was shared by many others. When counting had left human brains, logic had -quite fortunately- kept on standing its ground. If none of them could figure out how many facets composed the surface of a cube,  they were all aware of the steps needed to achieve the right block position. Twist left, again, again, up, back. Cube solved. Dinner ready.

After moving to the living room, he turned on his television. A filler program was on.
The insipid shows, meant to keep the audience waiting until the production had re-synchronized the hourglasses, always left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

As he often did, he started talking to himself. "We had industries going on and growing, we had innovations, you can see it in the archives. Now nothing ever gets new, we don't travel anymore, we just keep our activities to a minimum compared to our great-grand's epoch.
We just read the manuals… even our barters are settled in those damned manuals. I want to create things and I want people to use them, but how can you trade things you don't know the value of? I'm tired of watching fillers because TV station are incapable of good synchro…"

His reflexion stretched until bedtime.

His next morning was spent sitting in wait for his future employer. The sun was well into its upper-low quadrant when the suit wearing, almost over-groomed man showed up. Government officials were always touchy about their appearance.

"I'm sorry, I must have kept you waiting. My cat knocked my hourglass sideways during the night."
"Standard excuse", he though. That man didn't look like a pet owner. He'd probably spent too long perfecting his tie knot and was too proud to admit it.

"Anyway, Ignatius, glad we could still sync. Hopefully you didn't wait for too long"
-"Well, I can't be exact about it, but it would be around two and a half small standards HG, sir."
His interlocutor paused, a smirk slowly forming on his face.
"Yes… yes, as I said yesterday, you're the perfect man for the job. Come, I'll brief you on the way. We have a lot of work to do… reforming the Counsel will take some time."
- "At least five years".
This time, they both smirked.

Fin

This story is based upon a request from Ignatius (Keywords: Numbers, Hourglass, French Fries)
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Count On Me by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

It's my work, you're my hero: the Lemon now officially accepts requests.

Earlier this week, you might have seen the post I catapulted from the Lemon's Facebook page: I promised you a surprise.

So here it is.

I am going to write about you, for free.
Wait, that sentence doesn't really transcribe the excitement I feel. Let's try again:

I AM GOING TO WRITE THE EVERLOVING HELL OUT OF YOUR REQUESTS

BECAUSE I LOVE YOU (or something)

Terms and conditions apply, but I think it's simple enough, please read on.

If you want me to produce a little masterpiece in 500 to 1500 words, you shall:

Send me a request in the comment section of this post, or via Without a Lemon's Facebook Page.
This request must contain:

• Your name
• Your Facebook account name (so I can feature you)
• 160 characters about you (No more. I'm the one supposed to write)
• 3 keywords, anything you want (Try me)
• The genre of your story (optional)
• Your blog or a page you want me to feature (optional)

I will then proceed to write a story featuring you as the main character, upload it, tag you and let you bask in an eternal ocean of internet fame.

If you're wondering what the end result looks like, you can have a read at Mermaid (Not A Musical) -pilot experiment. If you're allergic to seafood, just read anything else on this blog and notice the fluffy bits of love floating around all the real chunks of sarcasm. They are for you. 

Don't wait. Do it.

Seriously, do it. 

The comment section is right below.

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A vampire's confession

Yesterday evening, as I put order to my archives, I discovered a fragment of a long lost correspondence between a long lost friend and his improbable lover. I might be able to get in touch with him again, so that you can ask him about his kind in the comment section.
Here it is, for you to enjoy.

Here, I am to fulfill your request and tell you about our kind...

Lady, I will beg you to forget what you already know, what you think you know about all of us, the cursed, the jinxed, the kindred, the ancient ones.
In all my years, and lady forgive me if I daresay they are numerous and heavy on my restless self, I have witnessed the birth and persistence of the young ones' lies.
From the most grotesque aspersions to the most ridiculous idolatry, our race have been bathed in wrongness since the very birth of yours, birth I have seen unravel before my eyes.

Folk tales, literature an movies have given us many names. Vampires, Lycans, Werewolves, Undeads... The truth is, little child: we are gods, and we are mistakes.
We are the unloved offspring of an inept creator, we are the feral rejects of Him Who Has A Greater Plan.
You have read about us, without even knowing it. Every mythology tells our story.
We are the Titans, Annunaki, Giants, Ases. We are the Angels. Shaped without a soul and untouched by death, frozen in our state of indefinite existence.
We do not die, we do not grow old, and we do not have a soul.
This is why you, humans, fear and hate us.

Yes, our appetites are great. Imagine for an instant, infant, what it feels to know that, after you are finally destroyed, you will simply cease to exist. Can you feel our longing for life? A desire so strong, a craving so ancient, that it is on this very life that we feed.
We have been portrayed as slavers, basking in lust and blood, yet we hide and nourish ourselves from your leftovers. Our hunger knows no limits; I, have exhausted many a female, gorging myself of their life force, through their flesh, their pleasure, their screams.
By now, I know how to subsist on the shadow of a smile, the shy shivering of a sleepy soul.
By now, we all know.
Times, dear newborn, have changed. Blood is not spilled in the same way, lust is not shared in the ways of old.

Nonetheless, even during our most reckless feedings, we never were as written is your books.
Some of us succumb to jealousy toward those who can die. Some of us stay in the shadow, and withdraw, decaying without even passing away, burnt to the core by our famine.
None of us enslaves. None of us can turn one of yours into one more deathless being. We do not fear god, we do not fear light. We fear the world we have been watching since apes stood up.

I have read the word 'whore', typed from your fingers. I must say I find it revolting.
Budding beings, able of merely a hundred years of existence, impersonating us, smearing our manners, language, refinement with the dirt of common words.
Harlot! Wanton! Yes. Promiscuous females of repulsive complexion they are! But mind your language...

Do you only know, my heart, that the word 'whore' is rooted in love? Yes, it does mean 'heart'. 'Carus' is the Latin term, term I have used myself to express my care toward so many lovers lost to time. And yet I see your ephemeral ilk, grossly turning hearts onto objects of mercantile sexuality.
This word alone is enough for me to say: you do not know us, mortals.

Ask me, growing thing, ask me whatever about the kindred. I will tell you, I will tell you how wrong you are.


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A vampire's confession by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

3 Almost acceptable uses of the word "Because" - And a a water-boarding.

In this new section of the Lemon, I am letting you know of these words wich, if they became actual people, would definitely enter the FBI most wanted list. 

Note: This is only my opinion. Abuse them if so is your wish (then watch me curse each and every keystroke of yours, for seven generations).

Because

"Because the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee" 

Reads weird? It certainly does, since the original goes like this:

"For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee"

See where the problem is?

Omnipresent in our day to day vocabulary, "because" begs for overuse, longing to turn your fastest paced narration into a primary school show and tell. Personally, I only know of three uses that don't make my eyeballs swell:

The Why

Answering a "why" question with a "because" renders your style livelier, bouncier and to the point, as underlined in the following example:

"Why does the chicken cross the road? Because fuck you, that's why." 

Works for me.

The who

Another use I will tolerate without frothing at the mouth for too long : "Because of that/[any object]", used in a casual tone or an explanation, to point out the cause behind a process.

"See, Zombies have taken over all the fast food delivery jobs, because of that, nobody dares ordering brain-burgers."

"Don't blame me if I'm surprised that you're actually a man. After all, I've moved to Los Angeles, changed my hair color and started studying gynecology because of you."

Still okay. Somehow.

The emphasis

When carrying undertone of gravity, innocence, and employed with the greatest caution,'because' as a mean of emphasis produces suprising results.

"Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams" 

In the conclusion of Yeats' Aedh Wishes Fot The Cloths Of Heaven , 'because' becomes the carrier of the whole work's emotional intensity, revealing further the simple yet authentic, heartfelt, dramatic power behind its words.

That is to say: make sure you're not short of authentic, heartfelt, dramatic intensity if you want to pull out that trick.

All the rest.

In any other case, "because" will turn your prose into the mind equivalent of boiled cabbage: Tasteless, colorless, and totally lacking of charisma.

Writing "He wouldn't feel like working on Mondays, because he was tired" deserves a good half hour of waterboarding. Full stop.

You might have a different opinion and want to right my wrongs in the comment section because you disagree. Please do and let the fun begin because I like debating.
No if you'll excuse me, I need to go and bite my fingers off.


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Eyes-Gouging Words: Because. by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.